Midnight Guardian
by Nausikaa
Summary: And no matter what crazed megalomaniac was out for his blood, Harry knew that in the end, everything would be alright.


_Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling and various other publishers richer than me._

_A/N: So, I wanted to post this on Thursday, but this site was inexplicably down.Thus, it's being posted now. I am particulary fond of this piece for various reasons, and I hope you like it too._

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**Midnight Guardian**

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Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the last hero that the Wizarding World had left, sat in the Gryffindor common room. His back was slumped with weariness, and his limbs moved with a stiffness that only the oldest of veterans can have. His body and spirit were very near broken, and his dazzlingly green eyes that looked about a hundred years old had been marred with sights that no seventeen year old should ever have to see.

The dying embers of the fire smoked lackadaisically in the ornate hearth, casting ethereal, distorted silhouettes upon the walls. The squashy armchairs and couches were bathed in blood red shadows, and the corners of the common room were shrouded in the pitch black cloak that night usually wore. Through the window, the moon shone like a ghostly beacon, calling sailors and lost travelers home through the fog. Everything was illuminated; tendrils of silver reached out across the grounds. On this night, Harry Potter sat alone.

There was a rustle of fabric, and Harry was not as alone as he had thoughtanymore. He glanced to his left, at the armchair that was now occupied by his father.

"Hi Dad."

"Hello son. How are you?"

"Tired. Just tired." A sudden thought struck Harry. "Why are you here?"

"You didn't expect your old man to miss your graduation day, did you?"

"But Dad, I graduated ten-thousand years ago."

James was not perturbed by this in the least; he only smiled at his son. For the first time, Harry noticed that his father looked almost no older than himself. He appeared, most likely, as he had the day he was murdered, except with a carefree face and jovial eyes; an expression Harry knew had never graced his own features.

"You died." Harry reminded his father.

"I know. I'm sorry." James looked at his hands. "I was supposed to be there for you. To teach you how to ride a broom and break the rules and drive McGonagall crazy. To teach you how to be a good man."

Harry didn't really have anything to say to that, because it _was_ true. He had learned to tie his shoes himself, learned to fly himself. He had gotten his first real present from someone else's mother. He had discovered how to be an honorable man by watching Albus Dumbledore.

"Where's Mom?"

"Oh, she's coming. You know how long it takes women to get ready."

And then James whipped out a quaffle that he had been storing in some undeterminable place and Harry jumped on his broom, which had miraculously appeared at his feet. James's broom materialized in a similar fashion, and soon the pair was flying around the common room playing catch, much as a muggle father and son play catch with a baseball. Harry could not stop the smile from spreading across his face, and he felt like he was eight years old again. In fact, when he looked down he _was_ eight, his body having shrunk down to a considerably smaller size, and it occurred to Harry that this might have been something he had been supposed to experience the first time around.

Their impromptu game was interrupted when Lily walked through the wall, decked out in an exquisite royal blue ball gown, her hair the color of fire elegantly piled on top of her head with gentle curls whorling down. She was looking at James, and yelling that if he didn't get his ass ready soon they were going to miss the show and he better not forget the tickets because she was not going through _that_ scenario again.

James smirked at his son and hopped off his broom. As his feet hit the ground his clothing morphed into a distinguished tuxedo, and Harry realized that he had, in fact, been dressed like that the entire time. He wondered how something like that could have escaped his notice.

Harry landed too, back to his seventeen year old self though now wearing the purple bunny pajamas typical of an eight year old girl. He plopped down on the arm of a nearby couch. His mother turned to him, a soft smile gracing her features.

"Harry, dear. You father and I are going out. We'll be home late, probably eleven or twelve. You don't have to wait up, okay honey. You've had a long day."

Harry nodded, and his mother placed her hand upon the side of his face, and caressed his cheek with the pad of her thumb.

"I love you. Everything will be alright." Lily reassured him, and then she and James glided out through the wall she had come through moments before. Harry smiled and closed his eyes.

With a jolt, Harry Potter opened his famously green eyes and sat up. He was a tangle of sheets and scarlet bed hangings. Harry struggled to remember his dream, for it was rapidly slipping away, but all he could come up with was the gentle touch of a hand upon his face, like a guardian angle watching over him.

And in that instant, no matter what crazed megalomaniac was out for his blood, Harry knew that everything would be alright.

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_Ha, it was a dream! Bet I had you fooled, didn't I, what with all my cleverness and sneakiness. Ok, probably not. But you should review anyway!_


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